


A Study in Violet

by tofugumball



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: 5+1 Things, F/F, Happy Ending, Language of Flowers, Minor Seamus Finnigan/Dean Thomas, Pining, Unrequited Crush
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-13
Updated: 2020-02-13
Packaged: 2021-02-28 02:00:48
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,120
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22685887
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tofugumball/pseuds/tofugumball
Summary: Flowers in amber are scentless. Hermione realised that years ago.But now, for the first time, it hits her how truly dull they are when compared with a colourful, breathing garden.or,Five times Hermione pines after a fantasy and one time she finds real love.ForFemslash February.
Relationships: Hermione Granger/Angelina Johnson, Hermione Granger/Luna Lovegood
Comments: 7
Kudos: 57
Collections: Femslash February Daily Prompts





	A Study in Violet

**Author's Note:**

> 4\. Flower
> 
> Happy birthday, A. I hope you're the happiest, wherever you are.

**i.**

The very first time she sees Angelina stays clear in her memory. It’s September 1st, 1991. Hermione is 11 years old and still very new to this whole magic business; there’s only so much that memorising all her textbooks could do to ease her nerves. She stands with her back straight, clutching her mother’s clammy hand as she looks around Platform 93/4 with incredulous wonder and – still – a touch of suspicion.

Hermione knows that this is not a dream, had let herself be convinced of it months ago, and she’s done everything she could think of to prepare for this moment. The start of her new life. But the chaotic mixture of noises, smells and smoke that fills the platform brings back the fear and anxiety and Hermione tightens her grip on her mother’s hand, searching wildly in the crowd for something... _familiar_ , something normal and safe to hold on to.

What she finds is anything but.

Her gaze falls on a girl standing under a nearby pillar. She’s chatting with a group of friends. She looks older; to Hermione, the girl looks almost grown-up, though she’s probably only in her Third or Fourth Year. She’s wearing a sweater with a big blue rose in the centre. There’s something so smooth in the way she’s holding herself, leaning gracefully against the pillar as she recounts some amusing story. A brown-haired boy joins their group and the girl squeals, hugging him enthusiastically. She says something animatedly that the rest of the group immediately laughs at and repeats. She leans her head on his shoulder, has to bend down a bit to do it, she’s so tall. Some of the long black coils of her hair fall slightly across her face and she pushes them back over her shoulder in one easy motion.

Hermione is transfixed. She’s no longer aware of the noise or the smoke and she barely notices her mother’s hand tightly gripping her own. There’s a tug of longing in her chest, a sudden desire to walk up there like that boy did and join the group. The dark-haired girl is the most beautiful person Hermione has ever seen. She desperately wants to look at her from up close, see what it’s like to have that blinding smile turned in her direction.

The pull of longing is intense in a way which unsettles Hermione; she’s not sure why or how she’s feeling this way. So she does what she taught herself to do when confronted with waves of irrational emotion: she shuts them down and redirects her attention to something else, instead.

“I’ll write as soon as I can,” she says, glancing up at her mother. Mrs Granger looks just as nervous and wound up as Hermione feels, so Hermione attempts a reassuring smile and keeps talking.

“The witch said the school has owls that anyone can use, remember? I can ask a Prefect to show me the way to the owlery and write as soon as tomorrow. Unless they assign us some additional reading before class. But even then, I should have enough time to-“

“For God’s sake, Hermione,” her mother snaps, irritable from anxiety. “Calm down. It doesn’t matter.”

She seems to realise how harsh her words were when Hermione flushes and looks away, fixing her eyes on some spot in the distance.

“You could take a few days to get used to everything,” Mrs Granger says, trying for cheerful but sounding simply tired. “Then you’ll have more to tell me when you do write. I’ll reply right away, I promise.”

She smiles carefully – a peace offering. But Hermione just nods tersely, still not looking at her, and slips her hand out of her mother’s grip.

“I better go find a seat before all the compartments are full,” she says in a matter-of-fact voice. “Say goodbye to dad from me.”

Before Mrs Granger can react, she takes hold of the cart with her two trunks (one for books, one for everything else) and heads for the nearest porter to help her load the luggage.

When the train starts moving, Hermione leans out of the window to give her mother a cursory wave, feeling the nauseating anxiety return to sit heavily in her stomach. But as the station rolls out of sight and the train enters a dark tunnel so that the only thing Hermione can see is a web of smudges on the windowpane, it’s not home or her parents that she’s thinking of.

Instead, it’s the image of that tall, dark-haired girl which won’t stop flashing before her eyes, as quick and vivid as fireworks.

**ii.**

Hermione hates Quidditch. It scares her with how dangerous it is, and she hates the frantic, hostile energy that buzzes in the air before every game. She sees the toll that the pressure of winning takes on Harry and how the training sessions affect his grades. She doesn’t understand the appeal at all. Most of all, she hates that no one else seems to care about any of this, everyone too invested in the House rivalry to see reason.

She usually keeps her opinions on the sport to herself, for Harry’s sake. He says that Quidditch is the only thing he’s actually good at, and though Hermione knows that’s not true, she’s learning to pick her battles.

Hermione hates Quidditch, yet she can be found up in the stands at every single match that Gryffindor plays. They all sit together, Ron, Neville, Dean and Seamus and her, and it’s nice. It feels nice to be part of a group. The boys tease her every time, citing her proclaimed complete lack of interest in the sport, but after a while she learns to just roll her eyes and suppress a smile. They all know she’s there to support Harry.

And laugh good-naturedly at Luna Lovegood’s ridiculous cheer accessories, of course.

And if her eyes stray, more often than not, towards the bright, sharp figure of Angelina Johnson, subconsciously seeking her out from among the swirling mass of players – that doesn’t necessarily mean anything. And if, when Angelina scores a goal for the Gryffindor team and Lee Jordan starts screaming praises through the megaphone and declares his undying love for her, if Hermione suddenly feels a pinprick of dislike for Lee – that’s completely irrelevant.

More often than not, Harry saves the day, gets to clutch the caught Snitch in his triumphantly raised fist for everyone to see. He glows in those moments, grins like crazy, and Hermione devours the rare sight with her eyes, savouring the wild joy on his face. She can’t help but jump up and down with the rest of the crowd, screaming and grinning like crazy, hugging Ron and Dean and whooping into Neville’s ear.

One time, in a frenzy of one of those victorious moments, she grabs Hagrid’s binoculars to be able to see Harry better and instead catches sight of Angelina, huddling with the rest of the team in the middle of the pitch. She has an elated expression on her face and Hermione can just about make out a bruise blooming on her forearm. It looks like a violet. The entire team is sweaty and flushed, with wet hair plastered to their foreheads. Angelina is no exception, but she’s the only one who looks beautiful, glowing in a way that almost hurts to look at.

When the next match comes around, Gryffindor vs Ravenclaw, Hermione endures Ron’s needling questions and Dean’s disappointment and spends the day in the library, stubbornly ignoring the distant cheers and boos that reach her ears. She’s perfectly happy reading by herself, and when Madam Pinch chases her out after closing hours, she doesn’t feel ready to go up to the Gryffindor Tower.

The thought of returning to the common room now, when it’s bound to be packed full of people either celebrating with a loud party or complaining angrily about Gryffindor’s defeat, just makes Hermione feel tired. An image of Angelina cuddling with Katie Bell in one armchair, laughing and throwing glances at Fred Weasley, flashes in Hermione’s mind. She turns and walks in the direction opposite to the tower.

After a while of aimless wandering she comes across an empty corridor she doesn’t remember seeing before. Determined to stay away from the common room for as long as possible, she turns into it. It’s small and narrow and blissfully quiet, almost eerie. Hermione walks down to the middle of the corridor and sits down with her back to the wall. She takes out her wand and starts practising the _Orchideous_ spell, streams upon streams of loose flowers bursting from the tip, violets and orange and blue roses covering the floor.

“That’s very good,” a voice says out of nowhere, and Hermione looks up sharply to find a painting hanging on the opposite wall. It depicts two elderly witches dressed in purple sitting at a table full of embroidery canvas and threads in hundreds of colours; they’re looking at Hermione with lively interest.

Hermione has been at Hogwarts for over three years, but she’s never actually had a conversation with a portrait, except for the Fat Lady. Intrigued and grateful for an opportunity to pass the time more easily, she hides her wand and walks up to the painting.

“Professor McGonagall said she’d give additional points to anyone who demonstrates they control which types of flowers appear, and not just conjure the ones dictated by their subconscious,” she explains. One of the witches nods in understanding; the other gives Hermione a warm smile and turns back to her work – an embroidery of a huge, colourful garden full of violets and golden orchids.

“And you’re practising because you don’t want to disappoint her?” The first witch asks. Her tone is kind, but the question feels too knowing, invasive.

Hermione bristles. “I’m practising to get the points. And because it’s important to have control over things like that.”

“Things like what? Your subconscious?”

“Emotions,” Hermione shrugs.

The witch shakes her head at that. “I was just like you when I was young, and let me tell you–“

“Leave the poor girl alone, dear,” the second witch interrupts her without looking up from the canvas. “She’ll turn out just fine. We both did.”

The first witch relents, steering the conversation to a different topic. She starts telling Hermione about the design the two of them are working on, instead, clearly proud. Hermione listens politely, but she can’t quite get past her annoyance at the witch’s invasiveness, or accurate judgment. She’s not sure which. After a while, she excuses herself and heads for the Gryffindor Tower at last, determined to avoid the corridor in the future.

It’s only when she’s nearing the Fat Lady and hears the loud music coming from the common room that she remembers why it was she found that narrow corridor in the first place. _They’ve won, then_ , she thinks and then immediately corrects herself, _we’ve won_. It’s getting late; Hermione is tired, and hiding doesn’t really lie in her nature. She braces herself, gives the password to the Fat Lady, who’s raising a judgy eyebrow at her, and steps into the noise.

The room is packed full with students drinking Butterbeer and Firewhisky that Fred and George must have smuggled in from who knows where. There’s bursts of laughter erupting every other second and Lee Jordan is standing on a chair in the middle of the room, playing the trumpet with more determination than skill.

Hermione starts making her way to the girls’ dormitories, pushing past groups of people and muttering apologies. She catches sight of Harry, looking very awkward as he signs an autograph for delighted Colin Creevey. Hermione makes a mental note to make fun of him at breakfast. Dean and Seamus are in a world of their own, sitting closely together on a sofa in the corner. Dean has his face hidden in Seamus’ shoulder while Seamus looks through Dean’s latest drawings with a huge smile.

Hermione stops in front of Ron, who’s waving his arms around wildly as he explains something to amused Neville. He notices her and draws her into a quick hug with an excited cry. “There you are! Finally, I have so much to tell you, we _crushed_ Ravenclaw, it was brutal!”

Hermione gives him a smile. “In the morning, okay? I’m really tired.” She says goodnight to him and Neville and continues making her way to the dormitories.

She’s finally about to climb up the stairs when it happens: Angelina appears in the door, looking dishevelled and happy, Katie Bell following right behind. They’re holding hands. Hermione freezes; her brain short-cuts and she can feel her face heating up. Angelina and Katie come down, swinging their clasped hands and laughing about something. Hermione’s still frozen at the foot of the stairs like a deer in the headlights. As they brush past her, Angelina gives her a bright smile, eyes crinkling, and ruffles her hair.

Hermione has no idea if the smile she gives back looks natural. Probably not. But then again, it doesn’t really matter, does it, she thinks, staring blankly at her own reflection in the bathroom mirror twenty minutes later. It doesn’t matter, because Angelina Johnson’s barely ever spoken to her. She ruffled Hermione’s hair only because she happened to be standing there, because that is exactly the kind of thing Angelina does – she’s easy with her affection and she likes to make everyone feel special just by giving them a moment of her attention.

It’s pointless to try and feel neutral towards Angelina Johnson, is what Hermione decides standing in the small, damp bathroom and paying no attention to her bare feet growing colder and colder on the stone floor. Literally everyone adores Angelina, she reminds herself as she changes into her pyjamas. That’s just the kind of person Angelina is; she burns so bright you can’t help but grow warm around her. So there’s no need to worry about it, Hermione concludes, sliding under the covers. It’s normal that she feels this way around Angelina, since everyone else feels the same.

She can’t fall asleep that night. It has nothing to do with the sounds of the party still going on downstairs. There’s a mess of emotions burning inside Hermione, and her efforts to stamp them down are proving futile. Her thoughts keep straying back to Angelina’s hand clasped in Katie’s, the image flashing before Hermione’s eyes over and over again. She tosses and turns, aching with confused frustration, until she gives up and snakes a hand into her pyjama bottoms.

She thinks about Angelina’s hands, strong and calloused from hours spent playing Quidditch. Imagines herself walking into the changing room to surprise Angelina after practice. Angelina would be happy to see her, would take off her robes and let Hermione press her hands to her smooth brown stomach, hide her face in her warm neck. She’d laugh and pull Hermione into a kiss and Hermione would get down on her knees, taste the scent of Angelina on her skin. Angelina would pet her hair and tell her what to do, show Hermione how to make her gasp and shiver.

Hermione would make her feel so good.

She comes with a muffled sigh, trembling all over. A few long minutes pass before she takes her hand away and rolls over onto her side, falls asleep with her heart still pounding in her chest.

**iii.**

“We’re already terrible at this,” Hermione tells Ron in a hushed voice, trying not to panic as they lead the group of First Years upstairs towards the common room. She hopes they managed to round up all of them, but she’s honestly not sure. “We’re going to let everyone down and McGonagall is going to hate me.”

“I think we’re supposed to be telling them stuff on the way,” Ron says nervously. “I definitely remember Percy telling us stuff on our first day.”

“Oh my god, you’re right,” Hermione groans. “Well then, think of something!” She herself is busy engaging in a glare-off with Anthony Goldstein, who’s leading the Ravenclaw First Years, over whose group will get to climb the narrow staircase first. She wins when Luna Lovegood appears out of nowhere and distracts Goldstein with some question; Hermione could kiss her.

“Woah, why me? _Ow_ , okay, fine, uh–“ Ron turns to the First Years. “Uh, so the stairs move sometimes...”

Somehow, after what feels like hours, they make it to the Fat Lady. Hermione is in the middle of explaining that the password changes every so often when someone tickles her sides from behind and she jumps and turns around.

It’s Angelina, standing in front of her with an easy smile on her face. She _winks_. Before Hermione can feel as if the whole world has fallen away and it’s just the two of them, alone and free, Angelina says, “Granger, if you see Potter, tell him the team’s meeting up in the common room in half an hour to catch up, okay?”

“Uh, yeah, sure, no problem,” Hermione stammers, feeling her face grow warm, and Angelina reaches out and squeezes her shoulder lightly. There’s a necklace with a pink rose pendant around her neck.

“Thanks, babe,” she calls over her shoulder as Katie drags her away, through the portrait hole.

Thanks, babe.

Thanks, _babe._

Hermione surfaces after a moment to realise that the First Years are all either gaping at her or talking between themselves, and Ron, instead of taking over, is giving her a puzzled look.

Embarrassed, Hermione turns to the Fat Lady, determined to end this situation as quickly and with as much dignity as possible, only to discover that she cannot for the life of her remember what the password is.

**iv.**

It’s getting more and more difficult to fall asleep. Hermione spends countless hours lying in the dark, exhausted but awake. Most nights, she thinks about homework, comes up with better ideas for essays she already turned in.

Other nights are worse. That’s when her sharp memory turns on her, bombarding her with snapshots of tenderness she’s collected over the years, always the observer of affection, never the object.

Harry smiling at Ron, soft and happy in the dim light of the fireplace. Seamus forcing Dean to take a break from drawing, massaging his hand. Fred and George exchanging glances from across the room, communicating silently in their own language. Lavender braiding Parvati’s hair before a date, conjuring a pear blossom to pin behind her ear. Luna feeding raw meat to the invisible Thestrals, a fond smile on her face. Dean and Seamus holding hands in the corner of the common room after McGonagall’s announcement that the school would be closing because the Chamber took Ginny.

And at the core of it all, like the main exhibition at an art gallery, there’s images of Angelina Johnson. The memories of her could fill a hundred galleries; Angelina laughing in the corridors, feeding an owl at the Gryffindor table, playing Quidditch, window-shopping in Hogsmeade, studying in the common room...

Angelina holding hands with Katie Bell at the top of the stairs, looking dishevelled and _glowing_ , looking like– Hermione’s always wondered if they–

She rolls over and shoves her face into the pillow, angrily.

Dream-Angelina works the counter at Honeydukes, sells Hermione a bottle full of orange roses. Hermione wants to tell her she’s pretty, but doesn’t know how. In the end it doesn’t matter, because she drops the bottle on the floor and it crashes to pieces and then they’re not in Honeydukes anymore.

Dream-Angelina is pushing her down onto a bed. Hermione wants it _so bad_. “Tell me what to do, tell me what to do,” she’s saying, “I don’t know what I’m doing.”

Dream-Angelina tells her to lie on her stomach. Her tone is impatient, curt. Hermione scrambles to obey, not questioning, desperate not to ruin it.

Dream-Angelina spreads Hermione’s legs and puts her mouth on her. It feels too good to be a dream. Angelina’s tongue is hot and wet, strong and soft where it’s moving against Hermione. It must be real. Hermione pants and moans into the crook of her elbow as Angelina grips her thighs more tightly, fingers digging into soft flesh. Her tongue slides in deeper, making everything even more intense.

It feels _too good_ to be a dream. Then, all of a sudden something changes and Hermione realises that she can’t feel Angelina’s mouth anymore, even though she knows it’s there. She can’t feel _anything_. Panic rises in her throat. Desperate to hide it, she tries to fake her moans, pretend nothing’s changed, but it’s not long before Angelina pulls away, frustrated.

And just like that, it’s over. Dream-Angelina is getting off the bed, saying something Hermione doesn’t hear over the pounding in her ears. She sounds angry. Disgusted.

“I know,” Hermione replies quickly, even though she has no idea what Angelina’s talking about. All that matters is that Angelina doesn’t blame herself for this. It’s not her fault. It’s all Hermione’s.

“I’m sorry,” Hermione says, in a last attempt to salvage whatever’s happening between them. Whatever it is, it feels important. Dream-Angelina looks at her once, indifferent, before opening the door and disappearing behind it.

Hermione’s in the Forbidden Forest, wandering aimlessly; there’s moonflowers everywhere and she starts picking them, ends up with a whole armful. She eats them one by one behind Hagrid’s hut, hidden between the pumpkins.

**v.**

There’s a special kind of yearning you feel for the girl in your life who has everything.

You could just say that she’s beautiful and popular, but there’s so much more to it than that. She’s vibrant and alive and _kind_. She’s funny and brilliant and makes every room seem interesting just by being in it; she looks just as beautiful crashed out on her textbook as she does dancing with her friends at a party. Sometimes she notices you when you least expect it, shakes your world with one friendly remark or gesture of easy affection, and you carry those fleeting moments in your heart everywhere you go.

From afar, she’s perfect. And even though you _know_ she must have flaws like everyone else, you never get close enough to see them. In your mind, she stays like that forever; ideal and out of reach, like a flower trapped in amber.

*****

Harry and Ron are still asleep when Hermione takes the handbag and sneaks out of the tent. It’s nice out; the morning is warm and sunny for October, the clearing they set up camp in studded with violets and marigolds. Hermione dries a small area of grass with her wand and makes herself comfortable on the ground, pulling out a few books from the bag before selecting one.

She isn’t searching for anything in particular, just needs a distraction. Sometimes it just hits her, the weight of what the three of them are trying to do, and she needs to pretend that she’s somewhere else, that it’s still 1992 and she’s whiling away a free morning by the Great Lake. Glad she didn’t pack only academic books in the end, she flicks through Harry’s _101 Craziest Quidditch Stories_ , looking for a chapter that would sound interesting, when something falls out from between the pages.

It’s a series of Muggle photographs. Harry must have not noticed, or he’d never consider keeping them. He already feels guilty about putting everyone he cares for at a greater risk. These pictures pose a real threat to everyone who’s in them.

The first one is a group photo of the Gryffindor Quidditch team, taken in their Second Year. Hermione can tell because of Angelina’s hairstyle. She came back after that summer with long box braids; she’d play with them at meals sometimes, flip them over her shoulder when she talked.

The second photograph shows Oliver, Katie and Alicia on the Quidditch pitch, in the middle of what looks like a water-chugging contest, while the rest of the team cheers them on.

In the third one, Angelina is grinning straight at the camera, standing proudly in full sun, sweaty from practice, her shoulders around Fred’s and George’s necks as they both kiss her cheeks.

For a long, suspended moment, Hermione is trapped, pinned down, sliced open by the effortless beauty of Angelina’s smiling face staring back at her. She can almost feel it, how hot to the touch Angelina’s hair would be from the sun, how salty her skin would taste. Angelina is bursting with life even in unmoving Muggle photos and Hermione hates it, she hates it _so much_ , but she can’t look away.

She never could look away from Angelina Johnson.

The thing about flowers in amber is, you can’t smell them. They look alive, but they’re dead, and maybe the scent you’ve imagined them to have all along never even existed. There’s just no way to know, and the only thing you can do with them is admire their untouchable beauty until it’s time to move on.

Her eyes, still fixed on the last photo, are starting to burn. _It’s all in the past now_ , she thinks, not for the first time. _I’m never getting that time back._ It’s time to move on.

Eventually, the moment passes. Hermione’s head clears. There’s the sound of voices coming from the tent – Ron and Harry must have woken up by now. Very calmly, she vanishes the photographs, gathers everything up and goes back inside, trampling a stray violet under her foot on the way.

“There you are,” Ron greets her from his bunk. His gaze drops to the books she’s holding. “Found anything useful?”

“No,” Hermione replies. “Nothing.”

* * *

**vi.**

Hermione doesn’t think much about Angelina Johnson in the years that follow. After the war ends, she’s busy building her life up from the ground, making it through the day and starting again in the morning. She’s busy working, making things better than they were before the war, imagining a better future and helping lay the groundwork for it.

She’s also busy falling in love with Luna.

*

“Dean’s exhibition is getting great reviews,” Luna’s saying at breakfast one day while she’s cutting the stems of a get-well-soon bouquet for their elderly neighbour downstairs. “He says Seamus is being insufferable, won’t stop saying _I told you so_.”

Hermione hums distractedly. She’s halfway through an interesting feature article about allium addiction in the vampire community.

“And Angelina Johnson is having a birthday party next weekend, everyone from DA’s invited. Dean says he and Seamus are going.”

Hermione stops reading as Luna’s words register in her brain. “Johnson?”

Luna nods as she cuts the last stem.

“You know,” Hermione says carefully, fixing her eyes on the page in front of her, “I used to have the biggest crush on her, at school.”

“Yeah? Me too,” Luna says easily, tying the flowers back together with a ribbon.

Hermione looks up sharply from the paper, astonished. “Wait, really?”

“Uh, yeah,” Luna says, laughing. “Have you _seen_ her?”

“Believe me, I have,” Hermione replies, and as she slowly gets over the initial shock, she can’t help but laugh, too. It’s so odd and yet, strangely, it makes perfect sense. Like everything else about Luna.

“So, you want to go? To the party?”

“Oh,” Hermione says, sobered. “Um. Sure.”

Luna smiles at her fondly, quirking an eyebrow. “Yes, you sound very sure,” she teases.

Hermione smiles back absent-mindedly. She hasn’t seen Angelina in – god, it’s been years; she heard she went abroad for a while, after Fred’s death. Hermione hasn’t seen her in person since Hogwarts.

“Oh, I’m so late,” Luna sighs. She calmly drinks the rest of her tea and stretches leisurely before standing up. “Listen, it’s okay if you’d rather not go. I know first loves can be tricky.”

She puts the mug in the sink and leans down to give Hermione a quick kiss. “Love you,” she murmurs, grabs the bouquet and leaves in a flurry. Hermione’s left alone, surrounded by memories that feel older than they are, the scent of white lilac hanging in the air.

*

The thing about flowers in amber is, you can’t carry them in your pocket forever. Hermione put hers far back on the highest shelf a long time ago. She takes it down, now, wipes it clean from dust and examines it, this collection of snapshots from a time of desperate yearning.

Flowers in amber are scentless. Hermione realised that years ago.

But now, for the first time, it hits her how truly _dull_ they are when compared with a colourful, breathing garden.

*

That afternoon, Hermione gets home from work and goes straight to the kitchen, where Luna is sat at the table grinding something in the mortar. There’s an array of plants around her and Hermione recognises honeysuckle and ragweed – Luna must be making more of that salve that she claims brings good luck and which Hermione lets her smear on the windowsills without argument because it smells so nice. Luna looks up when she enters, opening her mouth to greet her, but stops when she sees the look on Hermione’s face.

Hermione rushes into the room, dropping to her knees beside Luna’s chair. She takes the pestle out of Luna’s hand and sets it on the table before drawing Luna into a long, heated kiss. Luna’s surprised at first, but kisses back just as fiercely and by the time Hermione pulls back they’re both breathless.

“I realised something today,” Hermione says, her eyes roaming Luna’s face. “I realised that what I used to feel for Angelina, all those years ago– it was real, yes, but it wasn’t... that’s not even close to what being _in love_ feels like. And I know because, what we have now, it’s so much better. _You’re_ so much better. You’re my first love. So, yeah. Let’s go to the party. I want to go and see how Angelina’s doing, and then I want to take you home and make you apple blossom tea, and sculpt in wax together.”

Luna leans her forehead against Hermione’s, beaming. “And kiss me,” she adds. She smells like herbal soap and honeysuckle. She smells _amazing_.

“And kiss you,” Hermione agrees. “Like, a lot. Maybe make you come once or twice, if we’re feeling crazy.”

“Mm,” Luna hums, happy and content, “I saw this bottle of violet wine today that’d be perfect for a birthday gift.”

Hermione smiles. Violet wine is their favourite; it’ll be easy to persuade Luna to buy it for the two of them, instead, save it for date night.

Finding a perfect gift for the party will be harder, but that’s okay.

They have time.

**Author's Note:**

> Meanings of the flowers, in order of appearance:
> 
> blue rose – mystery, attaining the impossible, love at first sight  
> violet – sapphic symbol  
> orange rose – desire, passion  
> golden orchid – [link](https://open.spotify.com/episode/3jcI7FwGiUP2T2lwF6ZG4L?si=Q17ppp82QoStAd0vY9RcHA) to the Queer as Fact podcast episode on Golden Orchid Societies  
> pink rose – joy of life, youth, energy  
> pear blossom – lasting friendship  
> moonflower – dreaming of love  
> marigold – pain and grief  
> white lilac – memories, youthful innocence  
> honeysuckle – devoted affection, bonds of love  
> ambrosia (ragweed) – reciprocated love  
> apple blossom – love, peace, preference 
> 
> Most of these (with the exception of violets and golden orchids) are taken from wikipedia so I don't know how accurate they really are, but in this fic at least that's what they represent.
> 
> Thank you for reading!
> 
> I'm on [tumblr](https://queeratleast.tumblr.com/).


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